


Not Homeless--Transient

by apocryphal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocryphal/pseuds/apocryphal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a half-frozen, weary backpacker. Derek is a manager at the Panera Stiles is sleeping behind. They meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Homeless--Transient

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. I don't think it needs any warnings/tags, but feel free to request any if something makes you uncomfortable.

According to Stiles’ phone—back when it had had a charged battery, some sixteen hours ago—there were thirty-nine miles separating the cities of Red Bluff and Chico. Divided by four, which he figured was the average number of miles he could hike per hour, that made for about ten hours on foot. Stiles certainly wasn’t out of shape. Ten hours of walking hadn’t sounded great, but it had sounded doable.

Especially since he’d slept through his alarm and missed his bus, and there was no way he was shelling out another hundred and fifty bucks for a ticket and another night’s stay in Red Bluff when he could just walk.

It would be kind of cool, he figured. Hiking! Trees! California! What more could a man want?

What Stiles had forgotten was that Northern California was, in fact, _mountainous_.

 

“You? Backpacking?” Stiles’ father had raised both eyebrows. “Stiles, you develop an eye-twitch when you haven’t checked your email in five hours.”

Stiles had rolled his eyes. “That’s backpacking from the Stone Age, Dad, get real. I mean, like, catching busses and trains and hitchhiki—”

The eyebrows had rose even higher.

“Ahahahaha,” Stiles had said unconvincingly. “I mean, definitely not hitchhiking, that’s dangerous. Very bad. I wouldn’t do that.”

“So you want to spend thousands of dollars to slum around the country for a year?” his father had surmised, looking unconvinced.

“Not _slum_. You just, like, get yourself to a major city and hang out there for a while. Get a job for a few weeks. You can stay at hostels pretty cheap, and they’ll let you work instead of pay rent.”

His father had frowned. “Stiles, I don’t know…”

“I wanna do this,” Stiles had said stubbornly. “I _need_ to do this. I need to—travel. Meet people. Experience things. Just, like, _be_ for a while. You know I haven’t felt right since Scott…”

His father had sighed. “You’re twenty-two years old. If you want to do this, there’s nothing I can do to stop you. Just be safe, okay?”

“Duh,” Stiles had replied.

 

This was probably not what his father would define as safe.

After spending sixteen hours walking up and down the thousand mountains of Northern California (okay, so maybe there were hills, but seriously, _elevation_ ), Stiles was exhausted. He was cold, sore, hungry, thirsty, the sun had set about three hours ago, and it was fuck o’clock in the morning. He’d made it to some tiny town in the middle of the forest called Beacon Hills, and that was good enough for him.

He’d taken refuge behind a Panera, scarfed down a loaf of discarded French bread because this was luckily one of the Paneras that didn’t bleach its used bread before throwing it out, and settled down with all of his warm things for the night.

He didn’t have much. He had his thin, cheap sleeping bag, a sweater, an extra pair of socks that he quickly slid over his hands, and after a moment’s consideration, his warmest pair of boxers to double as a hat.

Why hadn’t anyone told Stiles that California got fucking _cold_ at night?

 

He didn’t sleep well.

Most of the night passed in a haze of generators thrumming, occasional horns honking, and gusts of wind that would slice through the sleeping bag and straight to Stiles’ bones.

 

His phone was still dead, so Stiles didn’t know what time he gave up on sleeping but there were faint streaks of pink in the sky when he finally called it quits. His entire body ached, and his limbs were sluggish and numb where they weren’t throbbing. It took him three tries to get his sleeping bag tied up.

Stiles staggered around to the front of the store. He his plan was to grab a cup of coffee and charge his phone so that he could figure out if he was close enough to Chico to finish the hike, or if he should just call his father and ask for a bailout.

Unfortunately, it was apparently not early enough for Panera to be open.

“Fuck,” he muttered, staring at the store miserably.

And then, because the universe hated him, vicious gust of wind descended, making him wrap his arms around his torso and shiver violently. Jesus, he was tired of being cold. As soon as he got back home, he was going to start volunteering at the local homeless shelter, because this sucked _balls_.

“Looking for coffee?” a voice behind him asked.

Stiles jumped and whirled around to see a gorgeous man in jeans and a gorgeous leather jacket.

A surge of lust came over him, hot and hard, but he wasn’t sure if it was for the man or for his jacket. Maybe just the jacket. Jesus, Mary and Joseph did it look warm.

Or maybe the jacket first, and then when Stiles could feel his extremities, the man could follow.

Either way.

_Want, please._

The man raised his eyebrows, and it occurred to Stiles that he’d been staring for entirely too long.

“Uh, yeah,” he said hastily. “Coffee. That is what I seek. And have failed to acquire. Unless you’re some sort of coffee fairy, in which case, I wouldn’t even care that you were a sleep-deprivation-induced hallucination as long as you gave me coffee. So, uh, end of story—if you have coffee, please share.”

The man blinked.

“We don’t open for another half-hour,” he said slowly, staring at Stiles.

Stiles let out an involuntary moan of despair, hugging himself tighter. Half an hour more in this cold sounded like a literal death sentence.

The man rolled his eyes and brushed past Stiles, making for the door and pulling out a set of keys. “Come on, I’ll make you a cup.”

Stiles’ eyes widened. “Oh my God, really?”

“Shut up and get inside.”

“Dude, you _rock_ ,” Stiles said enthusiastically, rushing to follow him in.

Oh, God. It was _warm_.

Stiles was still shivering violently as he followed the man further into the store, but it wasn’t so bad now that he knew there was an end in sight. The wind was gone and it was at least thirty degrees warmer in here.

“I can, like, pay and everything,” Stiles said, rubbing his hands together as they start to tingle and burn in the sudden heat, flooding with blood. “But, uh, not one of those crazy-expensive mocha frappelatte things. Just a cup of coffee. A cheap one. I’m Stiles, by the way.”  

The man was already at work behind the counter, flipping things on and opening canisters.

“Derek,” he answered without looking up, but there was an amused look on his face as he worked.

Stiles stood awkwardly on the other side of the counter, watching.

“Sorry,” he blurted out after a few minutes.

Derek turned to give him a questioning look. It might have been Stiles’ imagination, but it looked like his eyes traveled up and down Stiles’ body as he did so.

“Just—uh, for making me coffee. I’m sure you have other things to do, like open up and stuff—I worked at a diner, I had to open, I know you don’t fuck around. I mean, mess around. But, uh, thanks. Do you do this often? Is this a thing that happens every other morning, you making coffee for people who show up too early?”

“Only for the cute ones,” Derek deadpanned.

It was a good thing Stiles’ cheeks were already rosy from the cold.

“Right,” he said awkwardly. “Uh. Thanks? I’m just gonna—can I charge my phone?”

Derek indicated the wall opposite the counter with his eyebrows.

With his _eyebrows_.

Stiles wandered over to the opposite wall where there were comfy chairs and a faux fireplace that he desperately wished was real and crackling mightily. He turned his backpack around so that the sleeping bag tied to the back was not as obvious, and rooted around in the main pocket until he fished out his phone charger.

By the time he’d gotten it charged enough to boot up and check his email (one from his father, asking if he’d gotten into Chico safely, which, oops), Derek was walking over with his cup of coffee.

Stiles checked his front pockets, but, nope. Instead he had to awkwardly thrust his hips up off the chair and finagle his cash out of his back pocket, all the while looking undoubtedly like a monkey trying to do contact improv.

“It’s on the house,” Derek said, setting the cup down.

Stiles was almost certain that Derek had deliberately waited until after he’d gone through his epic hip-thrust-grab movement to tell him that, but he didn’t really care. Free coffee was free coffee.

“Thanks,” Stiles said, and folded his hands around the cup, taking a moment to relish the heat radiating from it. His fingers were almost puce in color and felt like they were burning, but at least they weren’t blackened and falling off.

There was a number on the coffee cup.

“You just passing through?” Derek asked, in what seemed to be his default dry tone. “Or will I see you tomorrow morning, as well?”

There was a _number_ on the _coffee cup._

Oh God.

“I, uh… Uh. Well. No! No, I’m, uh, actually in town for a while. Yeah. Not passing through. So, maybe?”

Oh, God, his life choices.

Derek smirked. “I’ll look for your hat bright and early tomorrow morning.”

His—

Stiles planted a hand on top of his head. His fingers closed around the fabric of his boxers.

“Shit!” he said, yanking them off, but when he turned his head, Derek was already walking away to continue opening.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’d been so numb after crawling out of his sleeping bag he hadn’t even noticed he’d forgotten the damn boxers.

Across the shop, Derek was laughing quietly.

“I’ll have you know it’s high fashion!” Stiles called after him, face flaming. “In—Sacramento!”

“Sure it is,” Derek said.

“Shit,” Stiles said again, quietly, and slumped in front of his coffee.

Then it occurred to him that, even wearing his underwear as a hat, Derek had given him his number and flirted with him. That could only be a plus.

_Then_ it occurred to him that he’d told Derek he was staying in town for a while, when according to his trek around town last night, the only hotel in the area was a Hampton Inn with rooms that were a hundred bucks a night. And this town definitely looked too small to have a homeless shelter.

Stiles glanced over at Derek, who was tying an apron around a _very_ trim waist, and sighed.

_To: Dad_

_Made it to Chico, just hanging out here for a while. Terrible service, might not email for a while. Love you._

_Stiles_

The loading dock behind Target looked promising for wind-blockage, and he could probably buy a better sleeping bag for less than thirty bucks. He’d even passed a river a mile or so north of town, so he could bathe later in the day. And, most importantly, he had a gorgeous man interested in him.

What could go wrong?

**Author's Note:**

> FYI - Some Paneras donate their old bread to local homeless shelters/soup kitchens/charities. Most others slice open the bags and douse the bread in bleach before they throw it in the dumpster, to discourage dumpster diving. Stiles is just very lucky here. 
> 
> May come back and continue this some day. It's certainly a great set-up!


End file.
